Ashley Kirkland
In the Checkout Lane
We kissed once before
at somebody’s
party and then he stopped
into my shift
to invite me
out. Now, here
we are, face up
on a blanket
at the end of his
parents’ subdivision
in the dark. His arm
is under my head;
bugs click all around
us. It’s the summer
before college
and we’re staring
into that infinite void
of constellations & forever,
so naturally, we start
to kiss slowly then
more hungrily
the way good kisses
can go. The next day
in the checkout lane,
I can’t stop itching
the back of my body,
covered in bug bites
from rolling in the grass.
I text my friend
on my break & she says
That’s what you get
for making out
in the grass. Shame
settles heavy
as a yoke. Later,
he swings through
my lane, buys
a birthday card
for his dad, smiles,
asks what I’m doing
later, scratches
the back of his neck.
I can’t help
but think
I guess that’s
what I get.
Shame sizzles
off my
shoulders
like fog.
Shitstorm
It’s February in Ohio and the snow
will miss us again, but I watch the forecast
constantly—opening the app on my phone
like it’s going out of style, like all of a sudden
Cincinnati’s own Kevin Robinson
from Channel 5 is going to break
in and tell us it’s going to be
a real shitstorm. “A real shitstorm,”
he’ll say. “It’s heading our
way. Better get to the store
now, because it’s coming.” And
we’ll all be stuck inside, watching
large bundles of flurries fall
on the mud in the backyard. The dog
will refuse to go to the bathroom
outside (she can’t be bothered),
and I’ll have to clean her poop
off the floor in the kitchen while the kids
run around the small, first floor, lightsabers
humming and whirring around
their heads, as they beat
each other. My husband will work
upstairs, from the chair I bought to nurse
the second baby in, and I’ll hear it rocking
as he sits on calls throughout
most of the day, while I send emails
and make grilled cheeses and soup
for the clamoring, little mouths
that call me mama and accidentally
whack me on the dome or the tush
with a lightsaber. Only none of this will happen
because it’s February in Ohio
and the snow will miss us again.
Hours Before the Inspector Comes to Approve Us for a Loan
I’m scrubbing the basement floor furiously,
where the dog poops whenever she gets the chance,
with my foot in a boot after a trip
down the stairs, which is to say
if someone asked how I’m doing I’d say living
the dream because no one ever means
that, but no one asked so I’m quiet,
scrubbing shit stains off the floor
with Fabuloso, the aroma floating,
drifting up the stairs, all cartoon-like,
and into the kitchen where the kids smack
bare feet on linoleum and clamor for snacks.
Ashley Kirkland writes in Ohio where she lives with her husband and sons. Her work can be found in Cordella Press, Boats Against the Current, The Citron Review, Naugatuck River Review, HAD, Major7thMagazine, among others. Her chapbook, BRUISED MOTHER, is available from Boats Against the Current. She is a poetry editor for 3Elements Literary Review. You can find her at lashleykirkland.bsky.social and lashleykirklandwriter on Instagram.
Featured photo by Luiz Gustavo Miertschink (Pexels)
